The T

Yesterday I took the T to work. By “T,” I mean of course the MBTA, or the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, a system of buses, subways and trains designed to never go anywhere very fast. Usually I ride my bike to the office, a practice I took up in earnest some 20 years ago when I finally got fed up with riding the T. I would have started riding my bike earlier, but I always thought that each cycling trip I made into the city would only bring me that much closer to the day when an MBTA bus — the very conveyance I spurned — would kick my bike and me for a field goal over the Mass Pike. I believed it was inevitable. But one day I boarded a very crowded train and found myself standing back to back with a guy whose butt cheeks rubbed against mine. Naturally this made me uncomfortable, so I shifted my stance a little to the left, only to find that his butt followed my mine. No matter how I contorted myself within the confined space allowed me, it soon became plain that my butt would never escape his, and so we went like that, butt to butt, from Packard Corner all the way to Copley Station. It was then that discomfort and humiliation defeated fatalism, and from then on I braved the Boston traffic.

Now, having told that little story, I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that, if it were a Victoria’s Secret model who rubbed butts with me and not some jamoke in a Boston Bruins jersey, I might still be riding the T today. But that was how circumstances arranged themselves, and, as I say, for that reason I’ve been a dedicated bike commuter ever since.

I rode the bus yesterday because the forecast called for light snow possibly leading to slippery roads. It wasn’t so very long ago I would have scoffed at such a warning, but nowadays I’m a bit more respectful of the fragility of human life, especially mine. Where I live I’m given a choice between the bus and subway, with each option having its own advantages and disadvantages, and yesterday I chose the bus. As I stood there waiting in the 23 degree cold, I harked back to the days when I rode the T all the time. If you ride the same bus at the same time every weekday, you see the same people, and after seeing them for a number times, you start to speculate about them, which is always an interesting game. It’s even more fun to invent nicknames for them. There was this one young Japanese guy who wore an old fashioned black cap like you might see in a tintype, and always had with him a book about Picasso. Not the same book about Picasso; he read many different books about Picasso. He was, in fact, mad about Picasso. His spectacles were wire-framed with small round lenses and he had a tiny, smudgy mustache, very nearly a toothbrush mustache. For some reason I thought of a young Emperor Hirohito, and combining that idea with his antiquated look I developed the lengthy and admittedly clunky nickname of The Great Man as a Young Man.

There was also a middle-aged man I used to see all the time who was obviously Latino; in fact, my initial name for him was Señor Hispanic, because he was so classically the type. He had a pencil mustache, a slightly stern, frowning countenance, and a square-shouldered way of moving about. It was easy for me to picture him a beribboned, South American military dictator, so shortly after thinking up Señor Hispanic, I replaced it with Generalissimo. If it ever turned out his name was Bob Jones and he spoke with a Southie accent, no one would have been more surprised than I.

Of course, today I don’t know anyone on my bus route. It’s a wonder I even know how the system works. Several years ago the T got rid of their tokens and have this thing called the Charlie Card. It’s the same size and shape as a credit card with a black magnetic strip running down its back. You can add value to it by using machines for that purpose at the stations. In the old days, I’d either buy a T pass or load up on tokens, but now you simply touch the reader with your card and find your seat.

Now you might wonder why they call it the Charlie Card, and it’s because of this: many years ago, a group called The Kingston Trio had a hit called Charlie on the MTA (before our transit system was the MBTA, it was the MTA). It told the story of poor Charlie who could afford to board a subway train with a nickel, but couldn’t pay the nickel exit fare to get off. Thus Charlie became imprisoned on the train. The refrain went like this:

Did he ever return?
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn’d
He may ride forever
’neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned.

That song was on the radio quite a bit when I was a little boy and my mother got a huge kick out of it; sometimes she’d sing or hum it while she cooked dinner. The tune was quite catchy, and I especially liked the banjo in it. My mother thought the funniest part was how Charlie’s wife would stand in the same spot every day and toss her husband a sandwich through the window as he went by. I thought, why didn’t Mrs. Charlie save money on lunch meat and hand Charlie a nickel instead? But of course that would have spoiled the fun of the song.

Our family had only one car, which, during the weekdays, my father left with my mother; so in the mornings soon after my siblings and I left for school, my mother would drive him 8 or 9 miles to the Woodland T station where he would take the train into Boston. When in the evenings she went to pick him up, she took all us kids with her. During the cold months with the shorter days, we’d often find ourselves waiting in the parking lot after dusk wondering which train would be his. You could see perfectly into the lighted interiors of the cars just as if they were rolling displays. We would make a game of who would spot him first, and even though he wore the requisite uniform of all businessmen back then — the khaki raincoat — my father stood out among the rest. Apparently little kids found that exciting, being the first to spot their dad. Is it that way today? I hope so.

But mentioning the Woodland T station reminds me of the most excruciating trip I had ever taken on the T. I was 17 years old, still in high school, and one of my buddies had heard of a bar in Cambridge — the city across the Charles River from Boston — that had a reputation for not being too particular about who they served drinks to. In Massachusetts, the drinking age at the time was 18, so many 17 year olds could easily pass for 18. I was a tall drink of water, as they used to say, and so was my good friend, Mr. Beveridge D. Spenser, who was there that night. Height helped, you see. So we all loaded into a car and drove to Woodland station to take the train into the city.

The bar had a large seating area so we had no trouble finding a table that could accommodate the five of us. Not being sure what to order, I finally settled on a gin and tonic, because I liked the sound of its name and knew gin smelled a little like pine trees, which I thought nice. I ordered it in what I hoped was a casual and convincing way. I sort of tossed it off, just as if I had ordered a gin and tonic a hundred times before. The waitress didn’t care. I could have come in wearing a propeller beanie with a box of crayons and a coloring book and it wouldn’t have mattered. I was served my drink and then I had another. And another. And another.

The evening went gaily on, the conversation seemed hilarious, and then suddenly the whole bar began to swim before my eyes. The tables and chairs and the people sitting in them started to rock and heave as if on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I looked at my drink and became dimly aware that there was limit to what one should drink. I stopped it there, but the damage had been done.

In time we got ourselves on the train heading back to Woodland station. I slumped into a seat near the driver and sat there with a glassy, 12-inch stare. My friends were talking animatedly, but I was having a hard time merely stabilizing the spinning motion in my head. My internal gyroscope had gone completely wacky. The trip was long and had many stops. As the train lurched and swayed and lurched and swayed, I focused on the driver’s foot as he worked the accelerator as would a yogi in meditation concentrate on a candle flame. My whole world resolved down to that driver’s foot. Then nausea began its evil work. The contents of my stomach churned and started to bubble their way up my esophagus. Up they went, then subsided a little, then up again, this time a bit further. I dearly, dearly hoped I wouldn’t make a spectacle of myself by displaying the partially digested remains of my lunch and dinner all over the floor of the train.

I don’t know how I did it, but I held on and saved the janitors who clean the MBTA trains some work. When we alighted, I informed my comrades of my intention to cross the parking lot, get down on my hands and knees, and evacuate all that my stomach contained. I was as good as my word. As tears coursed down my face, I discharged everything I had in me onto the square of asphalt I picked out for myself. I thought maybe my heart and kidneys and lungs would follow. In a show of compassion, one of my friends ripped a patch off his jeans and gave it to me to wipe my mouth when I was finished.

Now the T is sort of a novelty to me. I don’t mind it so much knowing that I’m not dependent on it . . . and I pity all the poor bastards who are. For instance, yesterday’s bus trip wasn’t so bad; kind of nice, in fact. But will I ever return? No, I’ll never return. You won’t find me riding forever ’neath the streets of Boston. Not this guy.

Another Gushing Fan

That was in the subject line of an email I wrote to Beatrice Colin, author of The Glimmer Palace.

It goes on:

Dear Ms. Colin,

I am not yet finished with "The Glimmer Palace," but can't wait till I'm done to write you. There is nothing better than to entrust one's self, body and soul, to the capable hands of a writer at the height of her powers, and that is a pleasure I'm currently enjoying. I chose your book purely at random at the local library (a chance I sometimes take) and can't believe my luck. Naturally, I will hunt down everything else you've published and look forward to anything new. You have a remarkable gift.

Yours very sincerely,
Mr. Schprock
Boston, MA USA


And she wrote:

Dear Schprockie

Thanks so much for your email. I'm thrilled that you're enjoying my book and flattered by your comments. It's always wonderful to hear from readers.

I do have another book coming out in March here in the UK called The Songwriter and you can keep up to date with reviews, news etc on my facebook page.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Beatrice-Colin/143922049200?v=wall&viewas=732740795

So far it hasn't been bought by an American publisher but hopefully will be soon. The book trade, like every other, is suffering at the moment.

I hope you have a wonderful, book-filled holiday. With very best wishes for the season,

Beatrice


Needless to say, I recommend the book.

Iron Jesus

According to The Boston Globe, we have a new Jesus, and His name is Iron Jesus. Forgive me, but I can’t help thinking of that episode of Hogan’s Heroes when Hogan, eager to buck up Colonel Klink’s momentary loss of self-confidence so this man’s easily-suggestible, blind egotism can go on serving the Allied cause, informs the kommandant that the men in the barracks refer to him as the “iron colonel.” Klink really dug the sound of that. The name thrilled him.

Of course, “iron” in that sense denotes strength, courage, indomitable will, unwavering purpose and all that good stuff; it’s just possible Jesus might have approved of that. However, as you can see in the photograph, this is not that kind of Iron Jesus. It’s more like Black & Decker Steam Iron Jesus, set to join the endless pantheon of other Jesuses, such as Potato Chip Jesus, Window Jesus, Cloud Formation Jesus, Grilled Cheese Sandwich Jesus, Shroud of Turin Jesus, Rock Jesus, Tea Leaves Jesus, and so on, a limitless string of accidental or naturally-occurring Jesuses who have plenty of similarly-made Virgin Marys to keep them company.

This begs the question: what did Jesus really look like? And then this: how was He “off camera,” so to speak? We’ll never know, of course, as no contemporary ever described or drew a portrait of Him, and the person we read about in the bible hardly seems human in the usual sense (which might be the whole idea I suppose). The Jesus in the bible is idealized, deified, only speaks in aphorisms. He’s practically a marble statue. What about Jesus the man? What about Man Jesus?

This is what I would like to see: someone should write a fanciful short story about a modern-day time traveler who learns ancient Hebrew and Aramaic, studies the customs of Galileans and so on, and sets off on a plan to infiltrate the apostles to kill Judas, just to see how things would turn out if the traitor of all traitors was out of the way. Our time traveler knows half the point of Jesus’s life was His grand denouement. The whole story would seem to fall apart if he wasn’t martyred, so what would happen then? Intriguing, wouldn’t you say? So this guy, the time traveler, conquers the space/time continuum — a small hurdle, but he knows some people over at NASA who are secretly working on the problem — and manages to insinuate himself into the apostles. Initially, he’s disappointed to see how short and unattractive Jesus really is, how He has such a big, hooked nose, and is put off by the Savior’s shrill, piping voice and lack of manners. Apparently, Jesus thought nothing of interrupting people. He was often petty and querulous, and made horrible sounds while eating. It also turns out Mary Magdalene was a fat, coarse, unintelligent woman, not a nice girl at all — our time traveler has no idea what Jesus could have possibly seen in her, for despite being put off by Jesus’s disdain of social niceties, it soon becomes obvious that He is a brilliant and well-spoken man and certainly could do better than this bimbo. Not to mention it didn’t look good with her hanging around.

To continue: the time traveler, who names himself Fredo by the way, and has decided to pose as a Corinthian to explain his bad accent and imperfect speech, uses his charm and makes himself useful while plotting to do away with Judas. As Jesus and His posse travel from town to town, Fredo’s the one who goes ahead to make all the arrangements, finding cheap places to stay and sometimes employs underhanded practices to keep everyone fed with a little spending money besides. Fredo, it seems, can procure everything. Jesus asks no questions and the disciples are delighted with his services. Plenty of food, plenty of wine, Fredo is all right. He even came through with barrels of fish and baskets of bread that time when supplies dwindled low during some big meeting on a mount. And that wedding they were invited to when the wine ran out? Fredo saved the day then, too. How did we ever get along without him? they all ask.

Now a twist: Judas turns out to be a great guy. Keen sense of humor, fun to be with, he’s the one who warms up the crowd before Jesus speaks. Judas even saves Fredo’s life when Fredo cheats a Pharisee out of a few pieces of silver in a sort of three card monty scam. The Pharisee is all for retribution but Judas smoothes the whole thing over. Seems he knows the Pharisee, they’ve had some dealings together.

So Fredo can’t kill Judas. Judas isn’t a reprehensible human being at all, he’s history’s greatest drinking buddy. He knows a million jokes. He was the one who came up with “pull my finger.” How can you kill the guy who’s the life of the party?

So Fredo talks Judas into becoming the world’s first Christian missionary. It takes a long time, but he finally convinces Judas to travel to Rome to spread Jesus’s teachings. It was a very hard sell, but Jesus had lately been telling the boys to be more proactive, so Fredo uses that to win Judas over to the idea. When Judas finally relents, Fredo gets him a donkey and a map and sends Judas on his way.

On we go. Palm Sunday. The Last Supper. Fredo can barely keep a straight face when Jesus predicts one of them will betray Him. Garden of Gethsemane. Expecting something, Jesus? Fredo thinks with a wry smile. It’s gonna be a long night. And then...

Judas shows up! What the—? He strolls over and kisses Jesus. Then the soldiers move in. Peter draws a sword and hacks off one of the soldiers’ ears. Jesus tells Peter to cool it and turns to heal the soldier’s ear — heals it, no tricks. Then the soldiers lead Jesus roughly out of there. As He passes Fredo, Jesus looks him square in the eye and says in perfect English, with a good American accent, “Nice try.”

Our time traveler goes: “Whoa.”

Something like that.

Lookee What I Found Here

Look everybody, a post! I found it underneath my office chair the other day and decided to toss it up. Don’t know how the cleaning lady missed it.

Now don’t worry . . . nothing momentous has occurred in my placid, humdrum, steady-as-she-goes life since the last post. After all, how much can happen in, what is it now? Three years? Four? No ripples in this pond, my friends. No murder convictions or sex change operations yet for your old pal Schprockie. Just living the American dream, even without the standard SUV — er, Prius, I mean— parked in the driveway. Yes sir, just give me a La-Z-Boy, a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a TV remote with fresh batteries and this guy is good to go.

Wellll, maybe a few things have happened.

For a long time, things had been quiet at work, and when I say quiet, I mean really quiet. Graphic design is considered an “insecure business” — meaning, of course, that we are forever only as good as our last job, and accounts can come and go for the most whimsical of reasons. Client loyalty is the only thing we can hold on to or hope for, and sometimes all it takes is for someone to say the wrong thing, or a job to be mishandled, or a vendor to say something not very nice about us, and out the door we go. With the economy being what it is, and freelancers selling themselves for cheap on Craigslist (“You want brochure, Joe? I got lotsa colors, you come here, I make nice-nice long time.”), business has been decidedly slack. And the evidence was all around. In our office, stacks of blank time sheets formed ten foot columns by each desk as these desks’ occupants listlessly browsed the Internet and chuckled at inane YouTube videos. Tumbleweeds blew through the office, cobwebs formed on telephones, and the wind, the incessant wind, whistled its plaintive tune through desk chairs and printers and copiers. Each day was just like the next and we all grew gaunt and hollow-eyed, watching for the phone to ring whenever we weren’t Googling something. It was, as I said, really quiet.

Then one day last June, just after my coworker, Moonshadow, bagged the trash and prepared to haul the load downstairs, one of the bosses made a surprise early morning appearance and cordially asked Moonshadow to step into his sister’s (the other boss’s) office. The request was meant to sound offhand, light, friendly, but its very offhandedness, lightness and friendliness sounded ominous. I liked it not. I sat up in my office chair like a gopher poking its head out of a hole, sniffing the air, sensing that something was in the wind and it portended ill.

80 Hour Man and I exchanged glances. He too picked up on the vibe.

The theory was this: Moonshadow, God bless him, was never one to keep up appearances. If he had nothing to do, everyone knew he had nothing to do. He kept the monitor of his computer positioned in plain view and you could always tell when he was working or when he was watching “Strong Bad” on Homestar Runner. The worst of his failure to keep up appearances was this: when tired, he would stretch out on the rug behind his desk and take a little cat nap . . . which, to be honest, could be portrayed as a “power nap,” a recharging of the batteries if you will, something that would eventually boost productivity. However, lately he had been doing this a lot more, and it looked bad, so maybe that was the reason for this little chat.

Some fifteen minutes later, 80HM and I were summoned into the same office.

It turned out Moonshadow and fellow sometime blogger John H. were given the sack. Both of them, gone, just like that, victims of the economy. The explanation was that Moonshadow and John H, being younger, would stand the best chance of finding work, whereas neanderthals like 80HM and I would quickly find ourselves too young to collect social security and too old for everything else. So there it was, half our workforce decimated by the economy. Scary, scary stuff.

A week and a half later, five computers were stolen from our office. The thieves, having seen the window 80HM thoughtfully left open for them in his office and correctly deducing that no security system was operational, slipped in, snatched up every laptop in sight, and then, with a touch of dignity, used the stairs rather than the window to make their exit from the building. The next morning I was the first to arrive and nearly tripped over the discarded external drive they left in front of the elevator door. I called the police, sat down to calmly eat my breakfast and read my book, and then commenced a day I shall never care to repeat. First a police officer arrives. While answering questions, my boss (the sister) enters the office. Explanations, shock, rage, acceptance, a little more rage, some strategizing, then one last burst of rage from her. Detectives arrive, more questions. Off to the Apple store to acquire new equipment. Phone calls to clients explaining what happened, asking for deadline extensions. Thanking a powerful, merciful, most beneficent God that the server wasn’t stolen. Petitions to Him to save my company and save my job. Promises to proselytize heathen everywhere.

Since then it’s just been 80HM and me. 80HM is a good guy and I like him well enough, but he has a million annoying habits which I become more sensitive to with each passing day. I am thrown together with him Monday through Friday without the interposing personalities of other coworkers, so my exposure to him and all his endearing traits is unremitting and complete and without filter. I am reminded of one of Dante’s circles of Hell, where two old enemies are buried in ice up to their necks and one gnaws at the other’s head for all eternity. Some days it feels like that, though not nearly so much fun.

In other news, my 18-year-old daughter, Daughter Number 2, moved out of the house. She and a friend collected all her stuff during a work day, then DN2 returned home later to tell us she was out. Shock, rage, acceptance, a little more rage, some strategizing, then one last burst of rage from us. Two body piercings and several tattoos later, we still see her and things are cool, but boy, that sure took some adjusting. She’s an adult and all that, and she has every right to go off on her own, but it felt like she ran away. But what can you do? We help her any way we can.

Well, that’s about all I have time for. Thanks for coming by. I promise to be a better blogger right after I proselytize some heathen.

The Purpose of Education

A month or so back there was an article in The Boston Globe about how Harvard University is encouraging its students to concentrate more on the classics — Homer and Plato and Cicero and all those guys — in a “learning for learning’s sake” approach, as opposed to zeroing in on such majors as economics or government for the more career-oriented. Somehow, someway, an education steeped in classics as arcane as, say, Sanskrit and Indian Studies, may in the end promote success in completely unrelated careers through, I assume, the all-important “formation of the individual.” Said Harvard President Drew Faust of the value of a liberal arts education, “That kind of critical thinking and questioning is something we should encourage and instill more fully than we do.”

This is all noble and very nice, but only for people who have the means to learn Latin or Greek or Sanskrit and indulge themselves in a brilliant education before finally enrolling in something more mundane and marketable. I truly believe my life would have benefited from such scholarly pursuits, and my understanding of the world would certainly have been enhanced for it, but money can be a big decision-maker. For most, it comes down to a question of, should it be “Food and Diet in Greco-Roman Antiquity,” or maybe something that can more directly help earn that MBA? Student loans won’t pay themselves, after all. Anyone who’s read Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure knows there can be a downside to learning for learning’s sake. And think of all those philosophy and latin and greek majors selling real estate right now. Maybe they can dispute whether a person can actually “own” something or not, or question if the house really exists, or determine the derivation of every word in a purchase and sale agreement, but beyond that their education has little application to their livelihood.

So what am I saying? Hell, I don’t know. Deep down I agree with President Faust. Maybe it’s this: the purpose of a liberal arts education may either be to (a) give us the tools to continue our own general education independently or (b) teach us how to figure out a restaurant tip. Assuming it’s (a), you understand what I mean. It’s sort of the old “teach a man to fish and you’ve fed him for life” kind of thing. For instance, the scanty liberal arts education I received in college way back in the Iron Age whetted my appetite for literature and for that I am eternally grateful. Reading Crime and Punishment opened my eyes. A 19th century English literature course sparked a lifelong devotion to such luminaries as Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot, Dickens, Trollope, Thackery, et al. This desire to read has, among its many benefits, increased my vocabulary and generally helped my ability to comprehend and focus. Very often, something I read in one place makes me want to read something else in another place, and so on. Unwittingly, I become broadened in the process.

Among the many books I’ve read over the years is that great philosophical tome, My Turn at Bat, written by the venerable Ted Williams. In it, Teddy Ballgame lamented how he wasted his high school years because it wasn’t until later in life that his mind grew curious. Well, count that as the only other thing I have in common with the Splendid Splinter (the first being that I’m a splinter myself). When I think back on what I could have done in high school with the resources that were available to me, and then when I think back on what I did do in high school, I weep copious tears of regret . . . for what I did, my friends, was not much. Not much at all. I think I’ve spent a good part of my life trying to make up for that sad fact.

In summation, let me conclude with those searing words that adorn the base of Emil Faber’s statue, the educator who founded the great bastion of learning so reverently depicted in Animal House: “Knowledge is Good.”

Ramblin’ Ramblin’ Ramblin’

Trina did it. She shamed me. I haven’t posted since the Bush administration and she called me out. Aw, hell, somebody should write something here. Of course, this is the worst day for me to try. I’ve got a cold that makes my head feel like it’s stuffed with cotton batting. My eyes keep wanting to close. While walking back from Dunkin’ Donuts just now, I tried strolling through the Public Garden with my eyes shut. First it was 5 paces, then 10, then 20. Came to find out I can go straight for quite a ways without the aid of my vision. Didn’t reckon on the horse manure left by Boston’s mounted police though. Here the city’s trying to close a budget gap and we’re paying our men in blue to fertilize the sidewalks with their damn nags. Boy that makes me want to mutter unintelligible things under my breath. You know, walk all slouched over and say something that sounds like “richer richer richer...” really low and menacing. Show them all, I will.

I want to go on record as saying Barack Obama is the coolest president ever. Everything he says is well-considered and makes sense. Did you see him on Leno and 60 Minutes? He is a grown up. We have a grown up in the White House. No silly posturing, no “mission accomplished” and “bring it on.” No adolescent trysts in the oval office. No “read my lips.” No “we begin bombing in 5 minutes.” And he talks to us like we’re grown ups, too. He appeals to our intellects. He assumes we’re rational and fair. And get this: he thinks we shouldn’t antagonize the rest of the world. How about that?

I am not a very political person, but I’m excited about this president. I honestly believe he’ll make a difference.

Kate Winslet had a good year in 2008. I thought she was outstanding in The Reader, and then she topped herself in Revolutionary Road, which I saw just last night. Forgive me, Kate, for not taking you seriously after Titanic. You had me at Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

And while we’re sort of on the subject, why do British actors do American accents so well? Why do American actors stink at British accents (see Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder in Bram Stoker’s Dracula)? Except for Gwenyth Paltrow. Do you know that when I heard her acceptance speech for best actress at the Oscars for Shakespeare in Love I was stunned — stunned — to find out she wasn’t English. I still can’t believe she isn’t. She really ought to be.

I guess I’m a sucker for an English accent. Last year the family went to Baltimore, where we stayed at their renowned waterfront, a shopper’s paradise and a veritable magnet for street artists of all kinds. I watched this one show put on by a female juggler/unicyclist. She was dressed up like a pirate and spoke with a British accent, only not a pirate British accent mind you, but just a British accent. Nothing piratical at all, more like a London businesswoman. On and on she went through her patter, dragging unwilling volunteers up hold this thing or that for her. One fellow, whose name was Robert, she called “Rawbut,” and I thought, Rawbut . . . how charming. Then, at the end of her act, the English accent evaporated into an ordinary, run-of-the-mill American one. Turns out she was from Ohio. Ohio? I had been had! I felt cheated! I wanted to shout, “Hey, lady, make with the English accent again!” Only that would have been weird, like walking through the Public Garden with my eyes shut.

I’m sort of in Watchmen mode right now. I read the graphic novel about ten years ago and thought it was pretty good. Recently I saw the movie and suddenly I’m hooked. Now I’m reading the novel again in preparation for a second viewing like I’m studying for a test. The comic could be a storyboard — the movie is that faithful to the book. Rorschach is the star of both, of course. I love that guy. I know the reviews are mixed and it’s pretty goddamn long, but I say see it. Even if you aren’t acquainted with the story, see it. Then see it again and report back to me.

Okay, I’ve written enough, time to go home. Nice to see everyone again.

There Is No Spoon

There’s an article in the paper today about a new form of mental illness where the sufferer imagines he is the subject of a reality show; more specifically, something akin to The Truman Show, the 1998 Jim Carrey movie whose protagonist’s entire life had been broadcast on television since birth, the ultimate invasion of privacy.

Now, if I could pick something to be delusional about, I think would choose The Matrix. To me, that is far more plausible and practical than The Truman Show, because there no gigantic sound stage with extensive production crew and cast would be needed. It’s all done very neatly in the mind. In fact, realizing you’re in the Matrix with the hope of learning to take advantage of it, as perhaps the dreamer who recognizes he is in a dream might try to fly, could really make life quite interesting and fun. Well, within limits, of course.

I would like to suggest that imagining one’s self in a movie or story, a fantasy that has structure and vitality and where one’s actions and thoughts inevitably lead to something, is healthy. Are we not all the main characters of our lives anyway? It is so easy to think two things: that we are drifting and our outcomes are hazy and ill-defined; or, conversely, that we are locked into existences that are hopelessly numbing and routine, like ants in a colony. Why not see ourselves from the perspective of a cinematographer and become everymen made special, like Marty, complete with soundtrack and supporting cast? There are worse delusions than that, I’m sure. Even the most humdrum life could seem interesting and meaningful, and that’s not really a bad thing, is it?

Would you like voice-over narration? Black and white or Technicolor? And how about director? Probably be wiser to go with Spielberg over Tarrantino there. John Williams would be a popular choice for composer certainly. All in all, not a bad way to function.

********

People make fun of those online, virtual reality relationships we’ve been hearing about in the news, where one can cyberdate, engage in cybersex, join in cybermarriage, get a quicky cyberdivorce, and even commit a cybermurder. Proponents of this brand of virtual reality suggest there is, when you come right down to it, no substantial difference between that and real reality, the latter being something philosophers since Aristotle and Plato have been very hard-pressed to define. This humble blogger would like to point out that there is nothing more virtual reality than this vast, global economic meltdown we’re experiencing, which, to my naive eye, amounts to a monumental maelstrom of abstract numbers and formulae and algorithms and “financial instruments” that have been thrown willy nilly from one computer to the next with no thought to where it all might lead. How can capital asset pricing models, free riding, convertible securities, Macaulay durations, anticipatory hedging, mortgage backed securities, accumulated depreciation, ratio spreads, and toxic waste swaps be real? Someone had to make all that stuff up! Things didn’t get this way because a sheep was traded for a millstone, it was because one imaginary thing was traded for another. All it took was for two parties to agree that such a thing as a “derivative” truly exists. Is this the way for intelligent, well-educated people to behave?

Okay, okay, that might have been a bit simplistic, but you see what I mean.

********

Over and out.